Of food, memories, books and considerations

It's 0326 hours on a Wednesday morning and I'm not sleeping because I'm letting my stomach digest. I know I should feel like a pig, but I'm not gonna apologise for eating. :p I never do. In fact, I'm delighted that I can still eat like I used to. I thought I had lost that type of appetite. I can justify, after all. It's been my first real, nice, proper sit-down meal for a long time. I've been feeling a l'il out of it lately. Now I'm out of a self-imposed temporary exile, I should celebrate. So I did. Been craving for chocolate for sometime now. So I went out with a couple of friends to Secret Recipe's and let myself be an abominable P-I-G. Beef lasagna, chocolate brownies with a scoop of vanilla ice-cream and blueberry cheesecake. All in one sitting ;) MMMIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOO.......... =) I'm like a cat with cream. This group of friends know I'm a pig, but they've never seen me been SUCH a pig. Heheheh... They had no idea about the double Whopper Burger set story or the two plates of nasi goreng kampong. :D Now I can't sleep. I've over-eaten, and I rarely sleep on a heavy stomach. It makes me feel bloated the next morning... same reason I rarely take supper.

I had wanted to pack up for a trip to Penang, but I've decided against it. Having the damned red tide. Explains the gluttony :p Sigh... I hate this. Feels like a leaking/leaky faucet. Cranky, painfully rusty and disjointed, and bleeding like a friggin' wounded animal. Men shouldn't complain, really. In fact, they should thank God they don't have to plan their sex lives and their vacations around their uncooperative reproductive systems. *wail* I really wanted to go to Penang. Yeps, the food, of course! And the road trip should be fun.... ;) But I can't now :( how can I when I am having cramps so bad, I can hardly crawl out of bed? So I decided to go through my books and take out something to read, instead. I love books. And I buy and keep the ones I want to read and re-read. Here's the thing about good books. With each subsequent read, you discover something different, over and over again. A different approach, a different insight, a different perspective, an unexpected twist, a sudden humour. You thought you knew what you were reading the first time, but then you realise you don't. Not really. Not everything. Not all aspects of it. You read it again, and discover something new. Something you didn't realise or notice the first time round. Something of relevance to you now. Something you can relate to. Something you can identify with. And perhaps, something that you need just right now. You read, and go "AHA!! Exactly!!" What am I reading? A cute, silly little book I bought on a whim 2 years ago, when I was in between jobs... and getting very confused about someone I've known for awhile, and care deeply for. Still confused about, still care for, but that's another story. And too personal to blog about :) sorry... It's funny, though, the thing about books. Perhaps that's why, despite advances in technology, people still write. And people still read. A lot can be said about a person's writing. And a lot can be read into it, too. What he's trying to say. What he's trying to hide. What's important. And what he doesn't want you to know is important. As for the book? Written very lightly, it tries to explore the frailty, fears and insecurities of human relationship. And its very true.

Maybe I've been running away from what matters to me most. Because I fear. And the fear of the unknown is the scariest of all. These past weeks, I've been unable to sleep. I worry. About many things. I look out at the view of the city I live in, in the still, witching hours of the morning, and feel inexplicably detached. Disaffected, and at the same time, terribly lonely. Which is partially why I write. Because it is difficult to tell in person, sometimes. Because, although many people would disbelieve me, I am actually painfully shy. I express myself better when I write. Because I can go through what I want to say in my mind. I have friends, some close, some not quite so. But we live separate lives. And there are some things I could never tell. Some personal demons few people would ever know. Which I am also afraid to admit to myself. I feel different from the world I live in. Different, detached, increasingly disaffected and disinterested. It frightens me. What if I die cold and heartless, and intractably lonely? I've said it before, and I'll say it again. It's strange, how, in a city of 1 billion, people can still feel so terribly inwardly lonely. Perhaps love is an emotion borne out of the fear, and the intrinsic desire or need to not be alone in this universe. It's strange how growing up addles my mind. I had less demons being a hormone-addled angsty adolescent. Life was simpler. Stupid simple. Black or white. We grow up and find life does not exist in stupid simple. No definitives. No black or white. It's all in B-mode. Like an ulstrasound system. Greyscale. Shades of grey. Grey-black, or grey-white. Grey in-betweens. Relativity. Einstein sure as bloody hell knew what he was talking about. It's all in relatives.

When I was younger, I couldn't give a rat's ass about being different. So what if I didn't join the Angels? I don't WANT to join the Angels. Fuckssakes, I can't throw a ball in a hoop for nuts. I fail Physical Education every time I am being tested for ball-throwing-into-hoops, and it's the only subject I'd fail. I'm short, and short-sighted. Add to that really bad astigmatism, and the fact that it's a contact sport, and my glasses cost a BOMB, so I can hardly afford to break it in some stupid game. And you want me to join the Angels, or none of you would be my friend? Yeah, well, whatever. Don't get me wrong, I'd be the only one to watch NBA games with my dad when they used to air it on TV. He'd reminisce about being the best three-pointer in college while I roll my eyes and tell him to stop pretending to talk about b-ball when he's probably thinking of ex-girlfriends, or I'd threaten to tell my mom :D I have no qualms about having a man who plays the game. I don't even mind going to watch him sweat it out. Sexy. I'd probably go cheer him on. :p He probably needs the adrenaline and testosterone rush anyway. And who's to say I wouldn't benefit from it?

But I don't see the point of joining a stupid club that might have been formed with and for good intentions, but misused because the trainers were relatively cute boys from across the street. Didn't think I'd know that? :) Just because I don't talk about it doesn't mean I have no idea what goes on around me. Giggling and simpering when some boy walks by kinda gives it away too, no? If I had wanted to meet boys, I could've just walked over and befriended all my brother's classmates. They knew me already, anyway. I avoided boys. I wanted to stay under the radar. I didn't want no trouble. Boys were trouble. They still are. Sigh. Testosterone-packed trouble. How the hell was I supposed to know they already knew me anyhow? Gave me the shock of my life when I went on to Form Six and found out. So I'm a snob. And I'm scary. Good. Better a scary snob than a slut. Threatening to ostracise me socially if I didn't join only served to piss me off. I was a floater already anyway. I didn't need to join some clique. I didn't need anyone to tell me who to befriend and who to stay away from. I certainly don't appreciate having my thought processes and ideas pre-fabricated just to join a particular hierarchy or social group. That only serves to insult my intelligence, perception and discerning abilities. I didn't need no one telling me which brand of pencils to use, which shoes were cool, and that I MUST have Converse cloth pencil cases and Jansport or Eastpak or in the very least (in the vein of) Tropicana Life backpacks to be 'in'. Fuck you, fuck all of you. You think my parents' money grows on trees? Joining a particular club wouldn't get you noticed by a boy, trust me. If he doesn't notice you, he never will. Even if you wear the most violent shade of pink from top to bottom. He'd probably think you're weird and a stalker more than anything else. Like I said to a friend before, "It's not what you wear, but how you wear it." It also doesn't help your cause that I caught you telling the rest of your buddies that now I couldn't be derided during practice because I refused to join even under duress. Well.. yeah, I hate being prodded. And I couldn't be damned to make you look good at my expense. Yeah, it's been more than 10 years, but I remember. Some things we just don't forget, you know? It helps shape our lives and our future. We're all much older and more mature now, and things have changed between us. The balance and flow of relationships change with time, after all. But if certain behavioural patterns were of such prevalence in our lives, it's near impossible to forget such folly.

I'm sick and tired of this. Even now, I still get this kind of shit. No, I don't want to be manipulated. And I'm not going to. I might allow it to happen a couple of times, but that's because I don't mind helping, and I'm relatively nice. But don't think I'm so stupid and blind that I don't see or notice what you're doing. I won't steal company information for you. It's unethical. I won't let you move in with me just because you're pissed with your in-laws. It's childish. I won't let you diss me in front of men you're trying to impress. It's ridiculous. I won't call your ex-boyfriends out for dinner at your behest, so you can find out things through me. That's ridiculously childish. No. I'll ask him out because he's a friend, and I still want to talk to him, even if you and he are no longer on speaking terms. Why not? I still value his friendship. It's not like I would sleep with him. I don't do rebounds. Rebounds hurt. Rebounds only bring regret. For both parties. If you don't learn that now, you never will. No amount of manipulation can bring you any form of wisdom whatsoever. That's something else you have to learn. No one is that dense. If you think so, you're self-absorbed, obnoxious and unbelievably egotistical. So no, and stop borrowing books you'll never read, and conveniently forget to return. My books, collectively, is my first love. And I remember each one of them, by name, by author, by storyline and by the dates I purchased them. Don't kid yourself, I'll kick a man out for insulting my books, what makes you think I won't remember you borrowed which, when and what?

I'm sick of being a door-mat. I'm sick of being nice. I'm sick of being made use of and manipulated because I am too nice to tell you to shut up, to stop and consider others' feelings and to quit thinking the entire fucking universe revolves around you. I'm tired of giving you advice, even if it makes perfect sense, because you never listen. I'm exhausted of listening to you repeat yourself over and over again, like a broken recorder, because, again, you don't really want to make a change, and I should really tape your bullshit, and play it back at you, to show you how terribly boring it all is. And how pointless. I'm sick of knowing u tell stories about me behind my back, and thinking I don't know. I'm not that stupid. I'm really weary of listening to you telling me how I don't care, because I DID, and how you're the only person in the whole universe and beyond who cares about anyone at all, because really, you don't, or you wouldn't have done all of these and I wouldn't be writing this now, would I? This is pointless, though, isn't it? Because you really don't care, and you'll never change. It doesn't matter what everyone else thinks, because only your opinion matters, and only you are the epitome of perfection itself.

So be it then. Stay in your perfect world. Sad, alone, depressed, cold, heartless. Perfect. Human frailty, human failings and foibles, human fears make us colourful. And imperfect. And beautiful to me. I fear it, because that's how I am. Imperfect. Afraid. Foolish. Cowardly. But I embrace my imperfections. And I want to learn. Because I care. Because I know I need to improve myself. To be better. Because I love myself, and that's the first step to letting someone else love me. Learning is a life-long process. And it's a difficult one. I couldn't give a damn about being different when I was younger, but now.. living in this city makes me realise that there's a certain amount of fitting-in to be done. Being an individual is punished, being different is scorned at. It's sad, and such a waste, since variety is the spice of life, but that's how life is. No man is an island; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. I need to do some major re-adjusting. Paradigm shift even, maybe. I don't know how it's going to be done, and how long it's gonna take, but I'll have to find a balance somehow. My sanity is at stake, and this time I can't afford to fail.